In My Skin (The Obsidian Files Book 3)

by Shannon McKenna

  Rise up, cupcake. Take back the power. This was a tough crowd, maybe, but everything was relative. The people in this room weren’t trying to frame her for murder, kidnap her or kill her. And she certainly had the birthday boy’s full attention.

  So she’d play with it. What the fucking hell. That man needed to be humbled. To worship at the feet of her divine awesomeness. She’d dance like she’d never danced before, blow his mind, and melt away, forever nameless. Leaving him to ache and writhe.

  That’s right, big boy. Prepare to suffer.

  But Noah Gallagher’s fierce, unwavering gaze was having a strange effect on her. Ever since she’d gone into hiding, she’d had a sick, heavy lump in her belly. For months it had been sitting there, like a chunk of dirty ice that would not melt. But when she looked at him, that pinched coldness eased. It turned soft and warm and alive.

  It felt amazingly good. Dancing for him, she could actually breathe again.

  For as long it lasted.

  The dance was ending. Caro sank to her knees, arching back in a pose of abandoned sensual ecstasy as the music reached its climax, luxurious fake hair brushing the ground in her grand finale. Dancing had never made her feel so naked before. She was stretched before him like a sacrificial virgin on an altar.

  Take me.

  The pose felt obscene, but only because there were other people in the room. If there hadn’t been, it would have felt right. It would have felt . . . hot.

  The sound of one person frantically clapping broke the silence. Hannah Gallagher, the girl who had hired her. Noah Gallagher’s younger sister, from the looks of her. Caro rose slowly to her feet. Noah Gallagher didn’t applaud. He just stared at her, as if he wanted to leap over that table and pin her down.

  Tension built like an electrical charge. The other people in the room looked up, down, anywhere but at her. Caro smiled brightly. Held her head as high as possible.

  Not fair, to throw a paid performer into the middle of someone else’s big fat faux pas and make her swim in it. Bastards.

  “That was fabulous!” Hannah’s voice was a little too high. “Thanks for a gorgeous dance, Shamira! Happy birthday, Noah! Wasn’t she awesome, everyone?”

  Not one yes. There was only dead silence, downcast eyes, awkward looks exchanged all around. And still, Noah Gallagher’s devouring eyes.

  So what. She’d stay dignified. While running for her life, fighting the powers of darkness, scrambling for money. Even if it involved putting on a scanty costume and shaking her booty for rude or indifferent strangers.

  Or, in this case, one single intense, lustful, smoldering stranger.

  She took a slow, deliberate bow, as if she were in front of an adoring crowd. Taking her own sweet time. Rubbing their faces in it.

  Take that, you rude shitheads. Like it would kill you to clap.

  She didn’t need any validation from these self-important bio-tech-nerd idiots. Just her fee, which she would get whether they liked her performance or not.

  Fuck ’em. She had things to do. Important things. After one more hungry peek at the mouthwatering godking. Lord, he was fine.

  She flash-memorized him in one breathless instant, whipping her gaze away from his face before eye contact could start the inevitable sexual mind-melt reaction. Then she swept out of the room, chin up, shoulders back. A regal sweep of purple veils.

  That was it. She would never see him again. She wasn’t going to feel that hot rush of opening in her chest, ever again.

  Suck it up. Ignore the lust buzz. Sport sex is reserved for normal people. Fugitives do without. And don’t whine.

  Hannah followed her out of the room, and slammed the door harder than was necessary. “You were gorgeous,” she said fervently. “You’re so talented. I’m so sorry they didn’t clap or anything. I’m going to tell them all off. Noah will kill me, but I’m used to it.”

  “I’ll rather not watch that,” Caro said hastily. “I’ll just be on my way.”

  “Oh no! Stay just a minute! You have to at least say hi to Noah. No matter what he says to me, he certainly enjoyed your dance. I’m the villain here. You’re just an innocent bystander. Noah’s very fair that way. And I’m sure he’ll want to meet you!”

  In your dreams, honey. “Let me, ah, change first,” Caro said, backing away.

  “You remember the way to the office? Come back after. I’ll introduce you.“

  The door flew open. A man strode out, not the birthday boy. This one was tall, blue eyed and very built, his thick dark blond hair hanging down to his shoulders. His eyes flicked over her with controlled curiosity and then turned back to Hannah.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he asked.

  Definitely her cue. Caro took off, hurrying back toward the nondescript office that’d served as a dressing room. She didn’t even want to know what Hannah’s answer might be. Not her family, not her fight.

  Once inside the empty office, she could still hear them arguing from behind the door. Other people had gotten into the mix. Voices were being raised. Her heart pounded as she peeled off her costume and packed it up. She pulled on her shapeless street clothing, trying not to overhear. She had her own problems. Big nasty ones. Time to cruise discreetly away and let them get on with theirs.

  Makeup pads got most of the paint off. She rolled the expensive dancing wig into its carrying bag, and put on her street wig, a thick brown bob with heavy bangs and wisps curling in around her face to conceal its shape. When she arrived, she hadn’t worn the mouth prosthesis, which puffed out her cheeks and distorted her jawline. She’d figured that the coat and hat were enough weirdness for the client to swallow. But the job was done, and she hoped to God she could slink out unnoticed, so in went the mouth thing. Big tinted glasses finished the look, topped off by her hat with LED lights in the brim, ordered off the Internet to foil facial recognition software her pursuers might use to find her on social media.

  Who knew if it really worked. At least the wide brim kept the Seattle drizzle off.

  Her hands still shook as she pulled on her oversized black wool coat. The foam lining she’d sewn in bulked up her shoulders and hips. She looked sixty pounds heavier, and slightly humped.

  At first, she’d tried changing the way she moved as part of her disguise, but after all the bodywork she’d done in college, she decided that the psychological toll of slumping and shuffling was dangerous to her soul. Inside her frumpy cocoon of foam and wool, she still had her pride and attitude. Hidden, maybe, but structurally intact.

  When she exited the office, she looked like a sketch that had been blurred on purpose. Noah Gallagher would stare right through her even if she were inches away.

  That thought was so depressing, she could barely stand to think it.

  Chin up. She’d had her fun, turning him on. Time for the disappearing act. Eat your heart out, Laser Eyes.

  But disappearing didn’t feel powerful to her. It just felt flat. Empty and sad.

  The route back to the elevators took her right past the conference room.

  Hannah Gallagher and several others were still arguing outside it. If she kept her head down, turned the corner and cut swiftly across the open space, she’d only be in their line of vision for a few seconds. Then it was a straight shot to the elevator.

  One, two . . . go.

  When she was squarely in the danger spot, Noah Gallagher came out the door.

  That was her undoing. She slowed down. Not consciously, but simply unable to resist the temptation to steal one last look at him before fleeing.

  His gaze snapped onto her, like a powerful magnet coupling.

  Oh, God. Oh, no. He strode through the center of the group, scattering them, and followed her. Even with her back to him, his eyes burned through her layered, ugly disguise, a focused point of heat against her concealed skin. She stabbed the elevator button. He wa
s twenty yards away. Fifteen, and closing. Picking up speed.

  He couldn’t have recognized her. In this dreary get-up, she couldn’t be more different from Shamira the sexy dancing girl. She barely recognized herself dressed like this. The door slid open. She lunged inside. No other riders, thank God.

  “Hold the door!” Gallagher called, loping for the elevator.

  Asfuckingif. She punched the close button, and the mechanism engaged.

  Their eyes locked, as the doors shut in his face.

  Her heart was thudding, as if she’d done something wrong and had almost gotten caught. Maybe he was just wondering who the scruffy stranger was. Dressed like that, she stuck out like a sore thumb in the muted corporate elegance of Angel Enterprises.

  She hurried through the lavish front lobby. Outside, a cab was letting a passenger out. She bolted for it, waving it down.

  Noah Gallagher emerged from the entrance just as her cab pulled away. His eyes locked onto hers again instantly. Even shadowed by the hat, obscured by the dark glasses, through the back window of a cab that was already a half a block away.

  He started running after her. Right out onto the street. Eyes still locked. The contact felt like a wire, pulling tighter and tighter. Then the taxi turned a corner and he was lost to sight. It hurt. As if something vital had been snipped with bolt-cutters.

  Her fizz of excitement died away. The cold lump of fear was back in place.

  She was so sick of feeling this way. She wanted to yell at the driver to circle the block, just on the off chance of catching one last glimpse of Noah Gallagher. To feel something different than that cold, heavy ache in her core. Just for a second or two.

  But she could not have this. Not even a stolen taste of it. She could not let lust trash her good judgment. She had to stay murderously sharp. Constantly on the defensive. Without rest.

  Sexual frustration wouldn’t kill her.

  But there were other things out there that definitely could.

  Keep reading for a peek of My Next Breath, the second installment in The Obsidian Files!

  My Next Breath

  Never count the cost …

  Zade Ryan. Rebel supersoldier. Nearly superhuman. On a desperate quest to rescue his missing brother Luke by any means possible. To do it, he must seduce the elusive Simone Brightman, inventor of the ingenious and deadly tech used to capture Luke and hold him prisoner, location unknown. Zade will do whatever it takes to get close to Simone. Her mysterious beauty and highly sexual allure have him at a disadvantage, but time is running out . . .

  Simone is fighting battles of her own, on her own. Until Zade—six foot four of sinewy muscle and lethal combat skills—rescues her from street thugs and leaves her breathless. His smoldering black eyes and overpowering sensuality—and his seductive invitation to spend one wild, unforgettable night with him—prove too tempting to resist.

  Their passionate encounter unleashes scorching desire that neither can control—leaving them vulnerable to their enemies who watch from the shadows and wait. And when they are lured into a trap by a monstrous killer hellbent on their destruction, they must fight with every weapon they have to save Luke, and each other.

  Because one night together could never be enough—and they might not live to have another . . .

  Chapter 1

  That voice. Hers.

  Zade isolated that sound from all the others competing to be heard: traffic, gusting wind, cold rain driving down on the black asphalt, dripping off the vinyl awning he lurked beneath.

  Fading out. Fuck.

  Zade listened hard for that free-floating sound thread, thin as a strand of spider-silk waving around out there in the humming urban buzz of Seattle.

  Yeah. There she was. Coming out of the Mercer Center with some people. Adults and kids. Umbrellas whooshed open. Cars pulled up. A few taxis stopped. He heard her, talking, laughing, saying goodnight. A subtle thrill racked him as that low, husky female voice stroked delicately down his nerve endings.

  Simone Brightman. He liked her voice.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the display.

  cold out here wtf

  He tapped back a response.

  wait

  Lightweights. His hired goons had been waiting hours in the rain. Boo-fucking-hoo. He was damp and chilled, too, but he wasn’t bitching about it. Nor should he.

  It was what he deserved for prowling around in the dark like a fucking criminal.

  Whatever it took. He’d kill for information about his lost brother Luke. And what he was about to do fell way short of killing. Nobody was going to get hurt tonight. At least not physically.

  Simone Brightman had to know something. And that was as far as he’d gotten. Months had crawled by without a single opportunity for a chance meeting with her. He’d plotted and schemed, increasingly frustrated. But no dice.

  Mostly she stayed stubbornly locked in her house. No errands, shopping, gas stations, malls, post office, restaurants, movies. No workdays at her biomed lab, which used to be the sum-total of her life. This once-a-week math tutoring thing she did with kids was the only reason she’d gone out at all since she and Noah Gallagher broke their engagement.

  She must be depressed. Fine. He could work with that. All she needed to make her misery complete was some mouth-breathing scum menacing her on a dark street.

  Add terror to the mix. And himself, never on the side of the angels.

  He followed a brief conversation she had with some kids on their way out of the Center. He could barely hear what they were saying, but they seemed to really like her.

  “Get home safe. See you next week.” There was laughter in her voice.

  Finally it was just her, making her solitary way toward her car, not knowing that it had been disabled. About three blocks away now. Her rubber-soled lace-up leather boots squeaked.

  Lately, for some unknown reason, she no longer bothered with her ultra-professional ice maiden look.

  At first, he thought he’d miss that super-controlled vibe. It had been stimulating to watch that round, taut ass twitching purposefully along in tight pencil skirts as she went about her business, heels clicking.

  Also gone: her sleek designer suits and smoothly styled hair. She’d been so tightly buttoned up it was actually kinda kinky-porno-hot. He got off on it.

  Now when she got dressed, it was in battered jeans or pilled leggings, sloppy sweatshirts, full-length skirts. Black, horn-rimmed glasses so butt-ugly they passed for aggressively cool. Her curly blond hair—surprise, surprise, not smooth at all—was out of control, unless she bothered to pin it up or put it in a messy ponytail.

  Her new look was as different from the old as it was possible to get. And it jazzed him just exactly as much. Go figure.

  And he looked at her a lot. Getting surveillance vid-cams installed in her place had been a hell of a thing. Her home security was top of the line. He’d finally succeeded in maneuvering a few micro-drones through her front door, two while the housekeeper came in to clean, one while Simone was having groceries delivered. Completely silent, nearly impossible to see. One was perched on the kitchen light fixture. One was on a bedroom curtain rod. The last sat on one of the wall-mounted speakers in her living room.

  She was always in her studio or bedroom. Always working. She slept very little, and ate so seldom it had actually started to worry him. The fuck? An adult human being couldn’t live on yogurt, a slice of toast, and the occasional fucking fruit chunk. It was a miracle that she functioned at all.

  Damn, now he’d lost the sound thread again. He reached for it—listening harder…yes. Rubber boot soles on the wet pavement. He’d know that little squeaky-squeak song anywhere. He’d memorized its exact rhythm and pitch.

  Less than a block away now. He was already getting a whiff of her. Warm, female smells. He seriously dug that honeysuckle sha
mpoo. Couldn’t wait to sniff it at close range.

  He stepped out of the shadow of the awning, and raised his hand to signal the men waiting down the street. One of them lifted his hand in response. They were ready. She was an easy target, parking an almost new Audi on a badly lit street like this.

  His heart raced as his augmented sensory processor kicked into high gear, as if revving for combat. Which was overkill. He didn’t need an ASP jolt for this. The Obsidian researchers had wired him and rewired him during the Midlands experiments on their quest to produce the ultimate, relentless war machine. The data that speed-scrolled over his field of vision whenever he was stressed was a constant reminder of how they’d changed him. Permanently.

  But he ignored it. He’d stolen himself back. He and all the rest of the Midlanders. He was more than what Obsidian had tried to make of him. Fuck them all.

  Tonight—for her—he needed to be funny, smart, and unthreatening, for starters. And good in bed, if he got lucky. Past experience suggested that he would. It was bad form to get cocky about it, but whatever. A guy could hope.

  In fact, he quivered with hope. Watching Simone for two whole months had kept him perpetually half-hard. It wasn’t like she was doing anything sexy. On the contrary. She mostly just sat there on the bed, cross-legged in a thick snarl of wires and cables, surrounded by screens, dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt. Braless. Eyes narrowed with ferocious concentration as she typed so fast and hard the detached wireless keyboard bounced against the mattress.

  He loved how the mad typing made her nipples jiggle.

  He could watch that for hours without losing interest. Simone Brightman’s life was slit-your-wrists boring, yet watching her somehow kept him continually buzzed.

  He was in a groove with surveillance monitoring. Forget sleep. Not happening, even thought he’d sworn never to inflict sentinel sleep on himself again after their escape from Obsidian’s research facility at Midlands. He hated the way sentinel sleep made him feel. Constant vigilance turned even the strongest into a numb, circuit-fried robot, no matter how skillful he might be at alternating his brain hemispheres, resting one while using the other and blah-blah-di-fucking-blah.